Through Time and Space
by Mikhailangelo
Summary: For thousands of years a man has travelled through time and space, gaining great fame, notoriety and renown, literally changing the course of history as he does so. Appearing on random planets at random times, this one man has done more with his lives than any other person in history can have claimed to. Yet, through all that he has done, he still hasn't forgiven The Doctor...


It has been said that there is nowhere in the universe quite like Glasgow. That statement is, however, technically incorrect, due to humanity's continued lack of creativity in nomenclature. It is, ergo, more accurate to revise the assertion to 'there is nowhere in the universe quite like Glasgow, _Scotland_.'

It is a city of paradoxes; where the citizenry are said to be as helpful as they are violent. A long held Glaswegian joke (one that has somehow, strangely, made its way to all corners of the universe at this point) maintains that while you may be stabbed during the course of your stay in the city, your assailant would no doubt helpfully and kindly give you directions to hospital afterwords, so long as you ask politely.

The old, skeletal man, dressed in fine late-Victorian clothes and using a long black cane for support, was technically alien to the city, though he had certainly heard of it. There is not much one can claim to be ignorant of after countless centuries of of travel through time and space.

Coughing violently as he pushed his way through the dense fog that descended from the heavens and clung to the pavement, the old man stopped to rest momentarily – placing his hand against a rough sandstone brick he desperately tried to regain his breath, but to no avail. With tired, aching legs which were too weak to hold even the inconsiderable weight of the old gent the man collapsed, wheezing, into a heap on the floor. The heavy black cane, with an ornate white-pearl tip, rolled away and fell into the gutter.

Internally, the man cursed himself. He had held on far too long. He should have realised when it was his time to go and accepted it. Instead he was now consigned to an undignified end; coughing and spluttering in a frail old corpse of a body. With a tear in his eye he lifted a spotted, skeletal hand to his face and felt the rough, patchy stubble that adorned his wrinkled face. This body had been so handsome, once upon a time. But as with his first incarnation, he had refused to see sense and realise that there was a right time for these things.

Not that he could really be blamed for his attitude - it's not as if any of the incarnations after the first really had any cause to concern themselves with the natural processes of age, foolish as they all were. Oh no, they were all forced to regenerate long before any real, physical effects set in.

The old man coughed violently once again, spluttering as a disgusting cocktail of blood and saliva dribbled down his chin and stained the formerly pristine white collar of his shirt. His eyes had began to dry up and the old man had no more tears to shed, but inside, he continued to weep. He had done so much; seen so much! But by his own hands he would die, forgotten, in the most mundane manner.

Though he had accepted that fate, he remained determined to exercise what little control over it he could. The streets, as far as he could see, were deserted – he could not rely on anyone but himself.

That feeling, at least, was familiar.

Using all the strength he could muster, the old man rolled onto his side. Though the movement was small, the effort required was gargantuan and he wound up spewing more blood onto the pavement. A low moan escaped his lungs, robbing him of what little oxygen he had been able to suck in. Gritting his teeth and gasping for breath, the old man persevered.

As he clumsily managed to get to his feet, he suddenly caught sight of his own reflection in a black mirror – a simple shop window. He looked even worse than he felt, which took quite some doing. His once bright blue eyes were now sunken and hollow; his formerly golden hair was wispy and white. His whole face appeared to sag; ravaged by the cruel auspices of time. An irony not lost on the Time Lord.

Despite himself, the man attempted to laugh at that thought. It was, of course, an attempt entirely doomed to failure and the only tangible result was an elongated period of coughing, wheezing and spluttering. Exhausted by the effort of dying, the old man fell against the shop window, though surprisingly managed to remain vertical.

Whenever the man now thought of the Time Lords he could not help but cast his mind to his home.

Gallifrey.

A word that few in this day and age have even heard. A thing that almost no living memory can recall. A planet that is all but forgotten. A planet once home to a race that is all but extinct. A story that lives on only in the hushed whispers of the higher species.

The tales of Gallifrey do not speak of the burnt orange skies; or of the silver leafed trees which showed the spectrum of a thousand colours under the light of the twin suns; or even of the fields of knee high crimson grass that was so soft to the touch, and crumpled underfoot with such a pleasant sound.

The legends do not say a word about the grand architecture of the Citadel; of the beautiful buildings which were conceived with the natural ingenuity of the Time Lords and erected by the power of their fascinating technology. The stories do not discuss the illustrious mountaintops, from which all of Gallifrey's grandest continent can be viewed in a magnificent panoramic view, or the perfect prismatic-light snow which adorned the scenery during the planet's natural winter.

In short, the legends of Gallifrey do not in any way reflect the nostalgic memories of those who saw the birthplace of intergalactic civilisation in all of it's splendour. They do not in any way reflect the memories and dreams of our present protagonist...

"Excuse me, did you say Galway?" A female voice suddenly called out, the words flavoured by an unmistakable Irish accent. The old man, startled and roused from his waking slumber, tried to bring his head up to face the speaker. Failing in this endeavour, he collapsed once again.

"Oh my God, are you all right!?" The girl cried out, rushing over to help the fallen gent. Seeing that his eyes had rolled into the back of his head, the young Irish lass instinctively panicked and hoisted the man back to his feet, draping his slender arm over her shoulder.

"I saw a police box just back down the road a bit – we can use it to call a copper and get you help – you'll be fine!" The girl rambled incessantly as the old man's body went limp. Luckily for both parties, his frail form was incredibly light and she had no problem dragging the living cadaver to the old, weathered blue box. As she fumbled with the door, with tears forming in her eyes as she realised it was locked, the old man mumbled something inaudible; ostensibly to himself.

"What? What is it?" The girl asked, glancing at the figure draped around her arm out of the corner of her eye.

Too weak to speak again, the man feebly raised his free arm and proffered a key at his saviour.

"You have a key to this police box?" The girl snorted incredulously as she took the key from his hand and slipped it into the lock.

"Out of all the police boxes in the city It just so happens that you have the key to this one right here right now?" In her panicked state, the girl was almost laughing at the absurdity of the situation as she opened the door to the police box and prepared to grab the telephone that would bring help.

"Right, now you _need _to survive so that I can get an explanation for..."

The girl's sentence trailed off as she saw the impossible. Inside the simple police box there was no phone, no... Well, she didn't know what else you would usually find in a police box, other than perhaps criminals who had been locked up while the bobby went to acquire some means of transporting both back to the police station, but there certainly wasn't anything that looked like it belonged in a police box. Instead, and impossibly, inside the small wooden box was a cavernous white room with any number of bizarre looking machines contained within.

"What in the...?" She managed as the man she was carrying slipped out from under her and fell inside. She was so shocked that she didn't even notice – instead she simply stepped through the threshold and into the giant room. Directly ahead of her, she could see a large, hexagonal console with a short, glowing green centrepiece. The walls around her were covered in large roundels, giving the whole room an eerie, alien feel. To her left, the girl noticed that one of the roundels was apparently acting as a television screen; a date was listed, in English strangely, though indecipherable alien characters were also displayed.

"The twenty-third of November, nineteen sixty-three? Today? What is this place?" The girl asked the world at large. With a sudden intake of breath, she remembered her companion and gasped in horror as she realised she was no longer holding on to him. Casting aside both her fear and her sense of wonder, she spun around and saw him, standing, though not of his own accord (he was resting his whole weight against a coat-stand for support), by the door, which was now closed.

"What's going on?" The girl asked, her apprehension about the situation returning in one fell sweep.

The old man, breathing heavily, appeared unable to reply, though he looked at the girl through sad, milky blue eyes which, without words, conveyed just how much he wanted to explain; to waylay her fears.

"Look, what is this place? What's happening to you? Who are you?" She sobbed, looking desperately around the room. The old man continued to struggle for breath, though he held out a hand towards the girl. Unsure of how to react, she took a step back without breaking her gaze with the man.

With a melancholic look of resignation in his eyes, the man exhaled softly as a golden aura began to form around both of his hands. Our younger protagonist gasped in shock at the sight, unnerved even further by the fact that the man had started to smile.

The girl was all but ready to run as the old man let go of his impromptu crutch and stood up, at full height, in front of the only visible exit. Before she did however, he began to speak; in a soft, weak voice that betrayed the fact that, in spite of his new-found strength, he remained just as feeble as he had been previously. The girl bit her lip and listened; all the while preparing to run like hell it this turned out to be a ruse.

"What... What's your name?" The old man asked, his words tinged with a grandfatherly kindness. Taken aback by the simplicity of the question, the girl answered instantly.

"Poppy."

The old man's smile widened. The eerie glow had now entirely engulfed both of his hands and it was quite clear that it was spreading across his whole body.

"That... Nice... Nice name Poppy..." The old man wheezed and spluttered as he fell to his knees, coughing up more blood and mucus and splattering a grotesque pile of phlegm across the floor. Poppy would have been disgusted has she not been overcome with pity for the man, who was now very clearly dying. With puffy red eyes and tears streaming down her face, she began to walk towards him, hoping to comfort him in his last moments.

The old man barely seemed to recognise that his new acquaintance was walking towards him, however he nevertheless managed to look her in the eye once again, causing her to pause.

"B'for'ago... B'for'a'go... Thankoo..." The dying man managed before he fell forward and allowed the golden glow to engulf his head. Poppy resisted her urge to run over to him; afraid of the strange energy as she was. Unsure whether she should run out of this madhouse, back into the relative safety of the streets or stay with her adopted charge until the energy dispersed she opted to simply fall to her knees and sob. She closed her eyes tightly and wept; confused, scared and very, very alone, Poppy had no recourse to anything but despair.

Gritting his teeth and holding back screams of pain for the sake of his terrified saviour, the old man allowed the familiar process of regeneration to begin. Though somewhat confused as to why, after thirteen previous incarnations, the regenerative process had began at all the Time Lord cast such doubts out of his mind and allowed himself to enjoy his sole emotional recourse; happiness.

He was going to live.

If there is a city which can not, in any way, be compared to the great capital of Time Lord civilisation, it is quite probably Glasgow. If there is any place that a Time Lord would wish to avoid meeting his ultimate fate, it is Glasgow. If there is any place in the universe that one would expect to die as a result of a non-violent, natural cause, it is _not _Glasgow.

With that in mind, it is quite fortunate that our protagonist made it back inside his TARDIS, is it not?


End file.
